Morocco (or, How I Almost Ran Away to the High Atlas Mountains)

Hear "Morocco" and you picture
the romance of Casablanca,
the bustling streets of Tangier,
the souks of Fez,
the nomads in the desert...

but the Morocco on the outskirts of Casablanca is lush and green,
flat fields stretching away along the divided highway…

Cows and sheet graze, guided by boys in cut-off sweatpants, a woman in vivid purples and oranges, a brown-robed man with a brightly striped woolen hat,
Tethered mules are dark brown against the greens,
Haphazard structures ramble in field corners with clusters of trees,
A utilitarian train runs in gray flashes.

Then the green starts to undulate softly …

Clusters of half-finished concrete two-stories sharp on the horizon,
Orange and yellow flowers carpet squares of field,
White tombstones behind an ornate set of gates,
Houses of solid pink set into the hillside,
Red and white speed limits and road signs in French,
(we could be in Europe now…)
and then a caravan of heavily bundled carts, mules plodding and pulling in front.

Random jumbles of boulders start to tumble from the low hills…

Exposed soil gleams reddish-brown,
A grove of palm trees on a hill,
Prickly lobes of cacti making property lines clear,
Clusters of red-earth adobe walls, open courtyards, laundry flapping in damp air
Mother and daughter hold hands in a field, faded orange and yellow stripes and flowers, beige of knotted headscarves.


Cookie-cutter developments announce our entrance into Marrackech, billboards showing what will be….

Imperial wall holds back the old city,
Cars, carts, bikes, motorcycles, pedestrians- all mix and merge,
Traditional dress, women covered,
Modern dress, women with faces open to the world,
Alleys, awnings, doorways,
Breathing
life.

Unload quickly, down an alley, dodge motorbikes.
An oasis inside.
Open center courtyard,
Arches and iron scrollwork,
A rooftop among rooftops.

Tented rooftop dinner,
Platters of steaming food set before us on the long table,
Eating and laughing through our exhaustion.

Light rain falls as we approach the main square,
Bright lights and white umbrellas glow in the rainy dark,
Steam rises from carts as chefs prepare fresh seafood dishes from the
produce in front of them,
Tea steams from spouts,
Piles of citrus gleam orange,
Carts overflow with dates, dried fruits, nuts,
Women offer henna painting,
Drums of street performers sound,
Shops sell leather, jewelry, trinkets out of a yellow glow,
An enthusiastic food-stand front-man engages us in a lively discussion,
I try not to lose my eight charges,
We dodge a persistent, green-hoodied young pickpocket as we make our way back.

Into the Atlas mountains…
Curving road hugging rocky walls,
Stream in a rocky riverbed,
Grassy banks divided by stone walls,
Homes blend into the hills,
Green strips of terraces,
Mosque towers square and bright,
Snowy peaks in the distance,
squeals of excitement.


Sweet mint tea and fresh lunch as the sky spits occasionally,
We embark,
Down the road,
Sky clearing,
Walnut trees, green,
And the river, always the river,
Rushing.

Women sit on sun-warmed rocks and mind their livestock,
Prod cows along dirt paths,
Peaceful,
Quiet,
And the river, always the river,
Rushing.

Reminders to stay off the road,
Crossing the river on makeshift bridge of rocks,
Luggage-toting donkeys not far behind,
And then we leave the river,
Pick up a narrow trail that leads up the rocky hillside,
Weaving, climbing, hugging the walls of the rocky gorge,
Stopping to admire the view.

The top brings the sight of the river valley,
Berber village below,
Snow-capped peaks,
As the wind whips and chills,
Sends us down to the village,
High-fives and hand games with French-speaking village children,
Before they are called back into their broken-windowed school,
Asking for the “stylo” I did not have.

Journal time on the outdoor patio,
while chaperones steal a moment together,
Dinner in the warmer basement,
Shivering to bed on thin mattresses on concrete floors,
Woken by braying donkeys and tuneless Muezzin,
Chaos.

Sorted by fresh flatbread and hot drinks,
We don waterproof gear,
Head off into light drizzle.

Bare walnut trees gleaming black,
Prune trees with delicate white blossoms,
We pause to hear about village life,
Haunted by a few smalls boys,
And a bicycle.

The day a blur –
Rain,
Blissfully sunny moments,
Rocky roads heading up
and then down,
Terraces green under the pale cover of empty winter branches,
Village families watching as we pass through,
Laundry fluttering in the open rooms,
Open and sun-filled for winter-time tea.
The muddy river branching through green grass,
demanding we cross one at time on our accompanying mule.
Boys play soccer in old sweaters, or in smaller versions of the hooded robes the men
wear,
Robes that belong in Rivendell,
or on Tatooine.
Strong wind taking hats over the edge.
Rest on a rocky outcropping,
Single-file again as the path narrows,
A woman in a magenta robe and turquoise flats skirts her sheep past us on the rocky
trail.
High-fives and a toy windmill in a village,
A piece of gum brings a mob of children from nowhere,
Muddy alleys, stone and adobe buildings,
The line stretches as students tire.
Finally, an arched stone crossing,
Through a dark tunnel, goats darting in the shadows,
To sweet tea and welcome shelter.


Barely dawn, it looks as if
The sky is clear.
Clouds threaten, but the sun rises above them,
Breaking over mountain peaks as we climb to a ledge overlooking the village,
Await the mules that will carry many of us to our next destination.


Students clamber aboard,
We start to climb,
Lead mule occasionally nudging my shoulder as I walk,
Reluctant to deny my legs the joy they’re finding in this exertion,
Weaving up the mountain-side, switchbacks leading us to the pass.



A brief diversion,
Icy snow at the side of the road,
A fierce fight ensues,
I feel like a journalist
Dodging bullets,
As a try to capture the jubilant scene
of some experiencing real snow for the first time.

Mules plod down the road
as few of us take the footpath,
crossing our way down the mountain,
trying to take in the heady scent of pine, the feel of sun and wind on our faces, the beauty of snow-capped peaks, the valley opening in front of us –
and trying, as well, to watch our feet.

Adobe walls and metal doors in marigold and cloudless blue,
Baby goats and chatting women,
We pause in a terraced orchard, bare branches letting in the sun as we eat, journal,
rest,
While village boys play soccer
With shouts and thumps.

Down through a bustling backpacker town,
Full of climbers preparing to tackle Toukbal,
The evening air crisp and cool as we finish our hike in the shadow of the hills,
Along the rushing river,
Back to where we started.
50 kilometers covered,
(30 miles, that is)
tired, perhaps,
but I, for one,
was reluctant to leave the mountains.

A stolen moment,
Before dawn,
On that next morning,
After a night of hilarious skits and huge platters of couscous,
The stars still pale in the deep sky,
The mountains surrounding in darker shades of shadow,
And the river, always the river,
Rushing.
Soothing.


We take the scenic route to Fez,
Chatter in one ear, Snow Patrol in the other,
Out of the mountains,
Into the wide open greens,
Crossroads with shops, men lingering over tea,
Oranges and bananas piled on carts,
Mules – grazing, pulling, prodded, ridden.
Hilly cities of beige buildings,
Satellite dishes,
Sidewalk cafes,
Chaos.
Stomach lurching as we tilt around curves,
Small villages blend into hillsides,
Children wave.
Fresh air and sunshine,
Rolling hills of waving greens,
Great bright squares of neon yellow blooms,
Sheets of rain bend silver white against the dark gray clouds.
Into rocky hills of juniper bushes,
Cities that beckon us to stay as we fly through.

Another open courtyard in our hotel,
Bright with sunshine as we leave for our tour of Fes.
The royal palace – intricate bronze doors, mosaics with the colors of Morocco:
Red for Marrakech, White for Casablanca, Blue for Fez,
Yellow for desert, brown for mountains, green for Islam.
And black. For decoration.


A view of the city, sprawling in the valley.
Pottery workshop – smooth, empty bowls dry in the sun,
Clay-spattered men form quickly with practiced hands,
Purple paint turns blue in the kilns, applied by hand and memory,
Tiles of blue and green and red are chipped into geometric shapes,
Placed together into intricate mosaics,
The shop gleams with the end results.







Into the Medina.
Out of the vans into a chaos of people and mules, cars and bikes,
My primary concern:
Not losing any children.
My mind is full of images,
Alleys;
The way the light plays down through rooftops,
Skeins of thread, tall twisted candles,
Fresh bread and even fresher chicken,
Piles of fresh herbs, bags of spices,
Artisan shops full of lacy metal and mirrored chandeliers,
Pungent leather coats, intricate wooden doors,
Fresh pastries and croissants, color-flecked blocks of candy crawling with bees,
A quiet moment in an ancient courtyard filled with reflected green light,
Tea cups in jewel tones,
Loaded donkeys barging through crowds.
A tall room filled with carpets and the scent of lamb koftka,
A “Berber pharmacy” with shelves of glass jars,
Herbs, powders, liquids,
Hands pass sweet scents and salves.
Fresh mint leaves held under noses
Blocking the tannery stench,
Pits of rose and crimson shades,
Men stand knee deep,
Scraping clean the skin with long knives,
As beaded shoes sparkle behind us.
Sense of direction compromised,
Feet quick on dirt and stone,
Down and out again.









Sleepy drive to Casablanca,
Flight full of chess and trivia games,
Home to deliver students into parents’ waiting arms.

It was tempting, I’ll admit,
The thought of slipping away,
Farther up and further in,
Sun and wind,
Adobe and stones,
Snow-capped heights,
Deep green lows.

And the river.
Always the river.
Rushing.